


For Canada and The Empire

by reject_sheep



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, due South
Genre: Crack, Plot What Plot, inappropriate crossovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:49:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reject_sheep/pseuds/reject_sheep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Commander Benton Fraser, RCMP, is assigned as first officer to the Klingon ship Rotarran. Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The new first officer boarded the ship precisely on time; they could all hear the sound of his boots on the metal floors. It was a good sign. Most humans wore soft, foolish shoes, the shoes of cowards who were more likely to turn and run at the approach of battle than stand and fight.

When they saw him, they were stunned. He was wearing a suit of the brightest red any of them had ever seen, brighter even than fresh human blood. It was … not armor. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t even Starfleet! Part of their orders had been to accept him as he came, and the crew of the Rotarran couldn’t afford to be choosy. They’d had a long string of defeats, and they were terribly undermanned. At least his boots were sensible. That was good, for a political appointment.

The Vulcan was staring. The Vulcan was … confusing. The Vulcan, whose name was Kowalski — he’d tried to explain it when he came aboard, but the explanation didn’t make any sense and nobody really cared — had been assigned to the Rotarran a month earlier, as part of some diplomatic agreement with Starfleet. Chancellor Gowron himself had ordered it, which was enough for the Rotarran’s crew, even if it was also unusual for a Starfleet officer to be assigned to, quite literally, the worst ship of the fleet. Vecchio thought there was something wrong with him, but since he thought there was something wrong with almost everyone, the rest of the crew ignored him and muttered disparaging things about Vulcans. None of them were interested in tangling with Vulcan, except in the abstract, after he’d almost killed Vecchio for chewing too loudly in the mess hall the day after he’d come aboard. _Almost_ being the operative word there; he’d had Vecchio on the floor, a knife poised over his throat in a perfect killing stance, and he’d said, clearly but not too loudly (only Vecchio heard him, and nobody paid any attention to Vecchio after the Incident on Giedi Prime) “Fuckit, a Vulcan wouldn’t kill you, you ambulatory targ vomit,” and very nearly run away. Vecchio had stared thoughtfully at the ceiling for some time, before getting up and demanding a mug of bloodwine. There wasn’t any, so he settled for Romulan ale, of which (for some reason) there was plenty, and nobody mentioned the matter again.

The human, who had taken a moment to scan the deck, which gave everyone plenty of time to stare at his horrifying uniform, said, “I am Constable — Commander, rather — Benton Fraser, RCMP, here to serve the Rotarran as first officer. Do you have you battle record ready for me?”

 Comms handed him the pad with details of their many ignominious defeats, and stepped back to let him read it.

“Oh dear,” he said, “I can see that your record is not worthy of my blood or my life. I will speak for you anyway. Perhaps tomorrow, we will seize a victory.”

The crew laughed nervously and nodded as though they believed victory was possible.

General Martok, newly assigned to the Rotarran, stepped onto the bridge. Commander Fraser straightened from his already ramrod-straight stance, which made several of the older crewmen wince, and offered the crew’s battle record to the captain.

Martok scanned it, grunted, glared at everyone, grunted again.

“I speak for the crew; it is an honor to serve under you, General.”

“You’re the … human?”

“Commander Benton, son of Robert, House of Fraser, RCMP.”

“Hmph. Not Starfleet. I hope you will serve well in battle.”

“I will certainly endeavor to do so.”

“Very well. I accept you as first officer, and this rabble as my crew.”

“Thank you kindly, sir.”

 "Thank you kindly" has no Klingon equivalent. In fact, when Commander Fraser said it, the universal translator froze, emitted a burst of high-pitched static, and needed to be reset.

The comms officer, who knew some Terran standard, looked it up in a human dictionary and tried to explain to the rest of the crew, but lacked a complete understanding of the connotations. He conceded defeat after Veccio asked if it meant the Human was defective in some way. By way of explanation, he offered, “He’s Canadian,” not really knowing what it meant — but the dictionary did have a footnote claiming that this was a “Canadianism.”

It is a little-known fact that in the 24th century, there are not only still Canadians (not, in itself, surprising), but that the RCMP maintains its own fleet. The ships are often attached to Starfleet, for political reasons, but they maintain “traditional” dress uniforms and a separate hierarchy. Training to become an officer of the RCMP Fleet requires not only a significant subset of Starfleet Academy’s civilian courses, but an intensive curriculum including tracking, linguistics, and supplementary advanced hand-to-hand combat. The final exam for entrance into the Fleet includes a six-week test on a former Klingon prison asteroid, Rura Penthe, in which the cadet is expected to survive with only the standard RCMP kit.

Cadet Benton Fraser passed, as expected, with flying colors. What his test administrators hadn’t expected was that he’d return to base at the end of his allotted six weeks accompanied by a mostly-deaf jackal mastiff. Commander Thatcher was rumored to have said something downright unprintable when she went to the ship’s transporter chamber to congratulate the new Ensign and was greeted with fifty kilos of wet predator.

Martok shook his head, confused by the Canadian, and ordered the ship to come about and head for the Cardassian border. Commander Fraser certainly handled the basics of his role well enough, but the entire crew wished desperately to see him in battle. He was far too cool, standing perfectly still and perfectly straight, his uniform appearing to glow in the lights from the consoles — even when the inertial dampeners hiccoughed and everyone else was thrown to one side. It is possible that Vecchio, who was at helm that shift, started jerking the ship occasionally, when he thought he could get away with it, just to see what would happen.

Commander Fraser did not, in fact, move. The crew found this mildly alarming, but also impressive.

 


	2. Chapter 2

That was the night they realized they’d finally run out of Romulan ale. The Vulcan cursed about it, and picked at his _gagh_. The worms were sluggish. They’d been sluggish for months. It was something about the ship: _everything_ was sluggish.

The ensigns were fighting again; they did that, every time the alcohol ran out.

Commander Fraser came into the mess, looked around and barked at Leskit, “You! You are sitting in my seat!”

Leskit turned without rising and said, “And?”

“I am your commander and you are sitting in my seat. Leave it, or I will be forced to make you move.”

Leskit sneered. He had a low enough opinion of humans as it was, and a human who obviously had no sense of subtlety or decorum, and didn’t even have the excuse of being Starfleet, was clearly not a prime specimen of the species.

Fraser took a step forward. “Are you certain you want to do it this way?”

Leskit looked him up and down and said “Yes, human, find yourself another seat.”

“Very well, then.” Fraser reached out — his arms were longer than they looked — yanked Leskit out of his seat, and threw him to the floor. “Are you prepared to move now?”

Leskit responded by attempting to stand up while sweeping Fraser off his feet.

Nobody quite tracked what happened next, and everyone resolved to get their hands on the security footage so they could watch it in slow-motion later and take notes, but it ended with Leskit still on the floor, now with Fraser’s boot firmly planted on his chest. “Now. Will you move, or shall I break all the bones in your hands so you have to be fed like a sickly child?”

Leskit grunted assent. Fraser stepped back, said, “Thank you kindly,” and took his seat. He looked at the rest of the crew, who were mostly staring at him. The Vulcan wasn’t, but the Vulcan could be excused certain idiosyncrasies. Vulcans are known for their inscrutability.

“Ah. Mess officer!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Perhaps it is time to break into the first barrel of bloodwine.”

The crew cheered as the mess officer brought it out. It had been a long time since the Rotarran had been stocked with bloodwine. Fraser took the first mug and began the chant of the Battle Hymn. The crew, once they got over their initial shock at hearing a human sing in Klingon (it wasn’t going through a translator — the lyrics get mangled, so the difference is clear. Humans are not known for their ability to sing in Klingon. Most non-Klingons, in fact, never really get the language. There are exceptions, the legendary Curzon Dax being one and a certain Starfleet Captain the other. Of course, the Captain is practically a Klingon under all the diplomatic veneer, and Dax’s next host actually became a member of a Klingon house, so they may be outliers), joined in. 

Vecchio, who was still mildly disappointed that he hadn’t been able to knock the commander off-balance earlier, asked “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?” 

“Ah.” Commander Fraser put down his mug of bloodwine, wiped his mouth, and continued, “I first went to Second City on the trail of the killers of my father. For reasons which are too complicated to go into at this juncture, I’ve remained there ever since, attached as liaison to the Klingon military.” 

Several people raised their eyebrows at that. 

Vecchio looked as though he was going to ask for details, but the proximity and cloaking alarms went off. 

“Ah! Perhaps we will have an opportunity for glorious battle! I must go to my duty station. Pardon me, thank you for a bracing dinner.” Fraser marched off, measured steps echoing in the space between alarm blasts. 

Vecchio looked at the Commander’s mug, realized exactly how much bloodwine the human had drunk, and whistled in awe. Most humans couldn’t hold even the smallest amounts of the stuff; Fraser could drink like a Klingon. He joined the rest of the main crew at battle stations, almost allowing himself to hope that things would improve and that there would be a victory for the Rotarran soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was too lazy to check which Klingons are which in the relevant episode of DS9 (Soldiers of the Empire. Yes, RayK is taking Jadzia Dax's place, sort of, I'm sorry. Not that sorry.). So it's possible that I got it "wrong." If this bothers you, remember: alternate universe.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a Jem’hadar detachment. The General, in a most un-Klingon manner, was counseling caution. Vecchio half-stood from his position at helm, deeply offended by the thought of avoiding battle. Fraser put a warning hand on his shoulder, forcing him back into the seat, and said to the captain, “Are you quite certain, sir?”

“My orders are clear! We are on a scouting mission. We must investigate, not tangle with the entire Jem’hadar fleet!”

“There are only thirty-six ships. Hardly a fleet.”

The General growled, and Fraser held up a quelling hand. “I understand, sir. You have your orders. We will live to fight another day.”

“This ship is cursed,” Vecchio muttered, and rotated his shoulder surreptitiously. The human had surprisingly strong hands. “Are we Klingons or Romulan cowards?”

The Vulcan, who had sharp hearing, glared at him.

Commander Fraser looked thoughtfully at the Vulcan and at Vecchio.

The alarms were silenced as they moved away from the Jem’hadar ships, and those officers who had been off-duty went back to their off-duty fighting practice and drinking. Except two: the Vulcan and Fraser.

The Vulcan was one of the first off the bridge after the all-clear, which Fraser noted. He did not, by the sound of his footsteps, go towards his quarters. Fraser noted that as well. As soon as he was cleared to leave the bridge, he followed the Vulcan. It was a simple matter to track him — for some reason, he wore an absurd amount of hair gel, even for a Vulcan. It was a distinctly un-Klingon smell, so simple to follow the traces of it through the corridors of the ship, until he found Kowalski lurking in front of a computer access relay, cursing quietly but at great length.

Fraser stood, listening with a growing sense of awe for the Vulcan’s linguistic talents, until he had to pause for breath. “Excuse me. I can’t help but notice that you’re trying to send a coded subspace message in the static from ordinary communications.”

Kowalski jumped, lost his balance, grabbed for a handhold, spun on one foot, and stopped facing Fraser in an awkward half-crouch. “What the hell! So what if I am? Is that any reason to sneak up on a person?”

“My apologies, Officer Kowalski. I was merely going to offer my humble assistance. [It is unclear what “humble assistance” is actually rendered into by Romulan universal translators, but scholars claim that Romulan has no word for “humble” that is considered polite for use in mixed company. It is to be expected that the Romulan spy, no matter how good his Vulcan, will have a Romulan universal translation implant for accuracy’s sake.]

“Ah, no, no,” Kowalski said, caught off-guard and trying to figure out exactly what Fraser had meant, as one of the words he’d used had … clearly not meant what the translator thought it meant. “No, I can handle it. I’m fine.”

Fraser nodded, peered over Kowalski’s shoulder at the access panel, and said “Ah. Might I suggest…”

“Augh! NO! No, no, no, I’m fine, go away.”

“My apologies; I couldn’t help but notice …”

“Notice WHAT?”

“Well, aside from the fact that your message appears to be going to Romulan high command … Actually, Kowalski, I do have a question. As your commanding officer.”

The Vulcan made a quick, abortive movement like a Cardassian vole-rat trying to scurry from the light, and straightened up. “Shoot, sir.”

“Why are you pretending to be a Vulcan?”

“What?” Kowalski feigned startlement to get himself a moment or two to gather his thoughts.

“I couldn’t help but notice that the hair gel you use — and you do use a lot of it — has a particular scent associated only with a plant native to a planet near the center of the Romulan empire — a plant that cannot be cultivated, in fact, and is highly prized among Romulans for that very reason. Your boot-soles are clearly of Romulan manufacture — they have a distinctive tread — and your left earlobe is formed in a manner associated with a specific mutation of the Romulan genome that has never been known to occur in Vulcans despite your close genetic relationship.”

Kowalski, almost involuntarily, reached up to feel his left earlobe, and looked for a way out.

“And, of course, this ship was until recently well-stocked with Romulan ale, which is illegal in the Federation and quite difficult to get without connections in the Romulan empire or a seized shipment from a Romulan ship. Since the Rotarran has never, as far as I know, even gotten into an engagement with a Romulan warbird, it must be that someone on board has connections in the Empire.”

“Conjecture! Lies!” Kowalski figured, probably because he’d been surrounded by Klingons for months, that the best route to freedom was bluster. So he blustered.

“Your temper,” Fraser added in that maddeningly calm tone of his, “is certainly not Vulcan.”

Kowalski gave up on blustering with that, and lunged straight for the human’s throat. Unfortunately for him, the human had bizarrely long arms and was able to grab him and hold him at arms’ length.

“I have no reason to believe that you intend any harm to the ship,” Fraser said, “as I see your message is in plain text and addressed to someone named Stella who you — who is Stella, Kowalski?”

“My wife. Ex-wife.”

“Ah. Stella — and I am unsure that any Romulan woman would take that message kindly, Kowalski, you’re being downright unreasonable, if she’s your ex, and if she isn’t your ex, she would soon be after reading _that_ — does not appear, from the content of the message, to be a threat. So if you stop attempting to attack me, we can reach an arrangement. Or you can keep attempting to fight, and I will be forced discipline you in a manner appropriate to those serving on a Klingon military vessel. I do not think you would enjoy this.”

“You haven’t already told Martok?”

“Not at all. It is my job to handle crew discipline, leaving him free to devise strategy and lead us into glorious victory.”

“What _are_ you?” Kowalski asked, slumping and admitting defeat.

“Commander Benton Fraser, RCMP, serving as first officer on the Klingon ship Rotarran. Human.”

“Human,” Kowalski sneered, “not likely.”

“Canadian?”

“Whatever _that_ means.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which battle is joined, Fraser takes one for the crew, and Vecchio might be warming up to Kowalski. More a series of fragments than a chapter.

“So what are you doing on a Klingon ship, Kowalski?”

“I … well, they asked me, Starfleet — I worked in the Romulan ambassador’s office — there was a Vulcan officer who’d been assigned to deep cover in the Romulan embassy on Cardassia, and he had this high-profile assignment. They needed somebody to take over so nobody would notice he was missing and start asking awkward questions. So. My superiors asked if I’d serve as a Vulcan, said there was a promotion in it for me. They didn’t warn me about the Klingons. I found out about _that_ after I agreed and reported to Starfleet intelligence.”

“Hmm.” Fraser nodded sympathetically, and stabbed his lunch. Even Klingon salads liked to crawl off the plate if you weren’t ever-vigilant. He resolved to find a way to get more lively _gagh_ onto the ship soon, though, there wasn’t much challenge in it these days.

“What about you, Fraser?”

“Ah, well, I went to Second City on the trail of the killers of my father. For reasons which don’t bear repeating at this juncture, I have remained as a liaison ever since.”

“Ah. Did you find them?”

“Yes.”

“Politically problematic?”

“Indeed.”

Kowalski nodded; Romulan politics were complicated and violent, so he understood the potential reprecussions. He wasn’t entirely sure he understood the consequences of being as honest, upright, and enamored of justice as Commander Fraser, but it was possible to pretend that it was a minor detail.

They were almost finished with their meals when Vecchio showed up, sat down without asking for permission, and started talking. “You’re awfully quiet. Is that a Vulcan thing? Fraser, what’s the problem with the Vulcan? He doesn’t eat well, he’s too quiet, he fights dirty …”

“That’s a Vulcan thing, Vecchio.”

“Even the dirty fighting? Because I think he fights like a Romulan.”

Kowalski moved fast, his chair scraping on the deck, and growled, “What do you mean by that, Klingon?”

“You cheat, Kowalski. You cheat to _win_.”

Fraser looked at both of them, saw that Vecchio had a certain glimmer in his eyes, and said, “Kowalski. Sit down.”

“Why should I sit down while this Klingon insults me?”

“Kowalski! LISTEN to him.”

“You cheat like a _warrior_ , Kowalski, sit down. I don’t want to have to kill you before I get to fight at your side in battle.”

Kowalski looked skeptical, but sat down when Fraser nodded.

“There’s no shame in cheating, Kowalski, not when you’re a runt, far outweighed, and you value winning. Which I do. I also appreciate your not killing me for chewing too loudly. That probably would not have been a sufficiently glorious death to get me into Sto-vo-kor.”

Kowalski almost laughed.

Fraser did laugh, and thump the table. “Indeed! But there will be battle in the days to come! The Dominion is growing bolder by the day, and the Empire will fight them until the last man falls!”

Kowalski grumbled at Fraser, “Are you sure you’re human and not some kind of mutant Klingon throwback?”

“Absolutely!”

“Huh.”

Fortunately for everyone, the cloaking alarm went off before they had to go any further with this line of thought. They raced to battle stations, at least one of them hoping that now they’d get to have a proper battle. It was a single Jem’hadar cruiser this time.

General Martok was still hesitating, shouting that they still had their orders. “We may not engage!”

The atmosphere on the bridge was, to say the least, tense.

Commander Fraser, not the least out of breath, surveyed the situation quickly as soon as he came to rest at his station. Vecchio was breathing a little hard, and Kowalski looked like he was about to die. Fortunately, Kowalski was on a minor station where he could at least sit down. Vecchio was on weapons this time, and he stood behind the console practically vibrating with anticipation.

You can be sure that Fraser noticed both of these things, as well as the challenge lighting Tovana’s eyes and Leskit’s scowl.

He visibly came to a conclusion, and faced the General. “Sir.”

Martok did have a good reason to hesitate — he’d only recently escaped from a Dominion prison camp, with the help of a disgraced Cardassian tailor and a Starfleet doctor. That wouldn’t stop it from destroying his career if he didn’t recover some of his former boldness. Vecchio was spoiling for a fight — although he was always spoiling for a fight, even in his sleep — and Leskit was clearly contemplating outright mutiny, if Tovana would allow it. Even Kowalski, once he’d caught his breath, was getting antsy, although he was hiding it well enough. As long as he didn’t have to pass as Vulcan anywhere with people who’d ever actually _met_ a Vulcan, anyway.

The Jem’Hadar ship was approaching firing range. The Rotarran was still cloaked, Martok still demanding caution.

“Sir. It is _one ship_.”

“That doesn’t change our orders, Commander. Stay cloaked!” Martok growled, clutching at the arms of the captain’s seat.

“General. General. General.” Martok focused on Fraser, whose ridiculous red suit was glowing in the light from the helm consoles. “This crew needs a victory. We can defeat one ship.” Fraser could see that Martok’s heart wasn’t really in this cowardly avoidance of battle; he just needed a little push. “If you will not engage these Jem’Hadar in battle, I will challenge you for command of the Rotarran.”

Martok laughed at him, that hearty Klingon belly-laugh that is most terrifying when one hears it in combat, and said “You? You will challenge me? Are you looking for death today?”

“No sir. Not at all. I am looking for battle. As you should be. Sir.”

Martok roared and lunged from his seat. Fraser stood his ground.

There are ritual formulae surrounding every kind of Klingon battle — it is how Worf was able to defeat a Klingon warrior for Quark without being able to see the fight himself — and one of the most important is that giving ground is almost always a sign of imminent defeat. Fraser was relying on Martok’s sense of honor and ritual to keep the fight equal; if Martok gave in to frustration and pulled a knife it would be much more difficult to win. Defeating an unarmed Klingon, if you have the kind of training Fraser has, is not as difficult as they’d like you to believe.

Of course, he did not really have to _win_. He just needed to remind Martok of the glory of battle. Fraser had time to hope that he would survive the experience, and then Martok pulled a knife.

He will claim, later, to have made a conscious decision to let Martok stab him, hoping that the Klingon doctors will be able to patch him up adequately, knowing that a victory against his insubordinate First Officer will inspire Martok to victory against the Jem’Hadar. He will be lying.

The last thing he hears, before he passes out from blood loss, is Kowalski, of all people, taking up the beginning of the Battle Hymn — tunelessly, but enthusiastically. Vecchio joins in, and then he’s out for the rest of the fight.

Fraser woke, briefly, in a medbay, thinking that he feels the wet tongue of a jackal mastiff on his hand. He smiled before he remembered that Dief was back in Second City, under the care of one of his neighbors. He sighed and drifted off to sleep again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fraser is recovering, Kowalski and Vecchio bicker, and the Rotarran arrives at Deep Space Nine.

“You know, Kowalski, just because I said I respected the way you cheat doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

Kowalski said something rude in a language the translator didn’t know. Vecchio, although he will never know this, should be grateful for that mercy: what Kowalski said would’ve been translated as the kind of insult to family and honor that no Klingon can fail to challenge. Unless they wish to be officially ostracized by the Klingon high command and by extension every other Klingon in the galaxy, of course.

Instead of being forced to try to rip Kowalski’s face off, Vecchio punched him good-naturedly in the arm, and continued working on his current task.

Kowalski grimaced, clutched at his arm over-dramatically, and said “Really? I can’t tell what you Klingons consider friendly. I need cultural guidance.”

Before Vecchio could come up with a suitable response, they heard the unmistakable sounds of Fraser’s boots.

Fraser was pale, not as solid a figure as he had been before his ill-advised fight with General Martok, but at least he’s recovering. Vecchio made an abortive punching gesture in greeting, realizing that he probably shouldn’t hit the wounded first officer before he actually connects. Kowalski takes refuge in his Vulcan disguise and merely nods.

“Thanks to you, the Rotarran has a victory again!” Vechhio said, glowing with the pleasure of having killed many Jem’hadar. Well. Helped to kill many Jem’hadar. A few Jem’hadar, at least.

“Ah. I am pleased to hear it.” Fraser’s voice is weak. “Perhaps I will not have to fight the General again. He is not a pleasant opponent.”

Vecchio laughed. “I read the report about your little incident with High Command. You’re obviously full of shit.”

“That was _highly_ classified.”

Kowalski grinned. “I like to keep informed.”

“Mmm.” Fraser leaned on the door frame. “What else should I know before I report for duty?”

“We won the battle against the Jem’hadar, Martok is quite pleased that you helped him overcome his fear of battle, he’s sorry he nearly killed you, and we’re on our way to Deep Space Nine.”

“Oh dear.”

“What?” Kowalski asked, failing to hide his concern.

“Nothing. I am … not popular with Starfleet.”

“You’re a Klingon officer! If they disparage you, don’t worry, the Klingons will fight them until they stop.”

“That was what I was afraid you’d say. You can’t fight all of Starfleet.”

“Watch us!” Vecchio, having finally participated in his ship’s first victory, felt almost invincible at this moment.

“Well, of course _I_ won’t, it wouldn’t be logical,” Kowalski said, with a very nearly straight face.

Fraser grimaced, sighed, and said “I am certainly grateful for your willingness to do battle on my behalf, Vecchio.”

“It’s not just me, Commander, trust me.”

“As I was saying. I am grateful, but believe me, you do not want to get into it with Starfleet.”

“We’ll see, Commander. We’ll see.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not even planning on leaving the ship.” Kowalski said.

“Ah. Is that —“ Fraser stops, avoids looking at Vecchio, and continues, “will you be repairing the computers?”

Kowalski started to retort, realized that Fraser was giving him an out, and said, “I may well be.”

“Excellent. Perhaps I will assist.”

Kowalski smiled. He and Fraser both know how incompetent he is with computers, but so far the Klingons don’t seem to have realized. The Rotarran systems have many redundancies, which has been Kowalski’s salvation thus far. It is also possible that their previous computer specialist was even less competent with computers than Kowalski; neither of them has the courage to actually ask, but there is some evidence to support the theory.

* * *

 

They docked at DS9 during the night-shift. Quark’s, however, is always open. They’d heard that the Klingon restaurant open again, since the treaty was reinstated, and everyone intended to go there as soon as they could. A few of the younger crewmen, though, have heard stories about Quark’s and are too eager to verify them for themselves to wait until a more sensible hour.

“This is Constable Odo — station security — calling for the Rotarran’s first officer.”

“Yes?”

“You need to come get your … crewmen. They’ve caused a bit of a _ruckus_.”

Fraser closes his eyes, feeling the beginning of a headache starting. “Of course.”

“And do it quickly. I don’t want to hold them here if I can help it, you never know what kind of a diplomatic incident that could cause.”

“Certainly. Thank you kindly.”

The changeling nodded and broke the connection. Fraser pulled on his jacket and settled his hat, and steeled himself for the walk through a Starfleet station.

Most of the people stationed on DS9 weren’t Starfleet, as it happened, which was a small mercy to Fraser. The few Starfleet personnel he passed stared; he could almost feel their gazes on his back. The uniform elicited a few whispered comments. It was unsurprising that few people out on the edge of the Alpha quadrant had ever seen an RCMP dress uniform, but that didn’t make it any easier to walk by, pretending not to have heard anything.

Fraser sighed and prepared to discipline a group of rowdy Klingons. He could already hear them squabbling through the door.

* * *

 

When he finally made it to Quark’s himself, the Ferengi greeted him warmly, as though they’d known each other for years — he was, after all, the consummate restauranteur — and said, “RCMP, I see. What brings you out to the hinterlands?”

“I am First Officer of the Rotarran.”

“The Klingon ship?”

He nodded, and sat at the bar. “You don’t have pemmican on hand, do you?"

“I _might_ be able to replicate some,” Quark said, although he sounded doubtful.

“Oh, no, thank you kindly. Replicated pemmican isn’t worth the molecules it’s made of. Can your replicator do poutine?” Fraser is not exactly fond of poutine, but he feels the need to eat something _Canadian_ , even if it isn't his kind of Canadian, and at least replicated poutine is generally no worse than the real thing.

[If you’re curious, “thank you kindly” does translate, sort of, into Ferengi. It has connotations of avoiding a financial transaction, though, so isn’t in common use, as no self-respecting Ferengi ever _avoids_ finance. Quark is used to non-Ferengi phrasings, though, and generally lets such things slide unless context seems to demand a more direct response.]

“Let me check. Not much call for that out here either, you can imagine.”

“Indeed.”

The Ferengi did some tapping at his pad, shook his head, and shouted “Rom!”

“Yes, brother?”

“Oh, good, you are here. Would you do this kind gentleman,” he gestured at Fraser, “a favor and program this into the replicators?”

Rom took the pad and glanced at whatever was on the screen. He nodded, and pulled the front panel off Quark’s main replicator.

“It’ll be a few minutes.”

“Thank you kindly. Raktagino, while I wait?”

“Of course!” Quark handed him a steaming raktagino, and asked, “So you’re serving on a Klingon ship.”

“Yes.”

“A bit unusual, isn’t that? Don’t your,” he waved his hand, indicating Fraser’s uniform, “usually stick to their own ships?”

“Indeed. But I traveled to Second City, on Kronos, on the trail of the killers of my father, and for reasons too involved to get into at this moment, I have remained as liaison to the Klingon Empire ever since.”

“Huh.” Quark looked thoughtful, nodded, and said “Enjoy your raktagino. Rom will bring your poutine when he’s finished programming the replicator. Right, Rom?”

Rom replied, but it was muffled a bit, as his head was buried deep inside the workings of the replicator.

“Oh hell, someone’s winning at dabo again, excuse me,” Quark raced off, shouting at a customer. Quark hates it when a customer wins: that’s not how gambling is supposed to work, _especially_ when the House is Ferengi.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd written myself into an impossible corner, but I think I found a way out of it, so I'm not giving up yet. 
> 
> It does go rather off the rails in the next bit, though, so be warned.
> 
> I'm also not totally sold on the poutine, but I had a total failure of imagination. Feel free to substitute appalling Canadian food of your choice.


	6. Chapter 6

It was a good thing for Kowalski that Fraser is, along with his other talents, quite skilled with computers. Apparently, there had been many long nights without much else to do in the Canadian winter. Which Kowalski, not really knowing much about Earth, accepted without argument. Fraser has, thus far, been able to coach Kowalski through most of his duties on the ship.

Most of the rest of the Rotarran’s crew had shore leave, or was seconded to station security, so Fraser and Kowalski have the place nearly to themselves. The brig was a bit crowded, because of the incident at Quark’s, but the ensigns involved knew better than to make trouble. If they were good, they’d get out in a day or two, when General Martok had finished working out a deal with the Constable. Fraser was ostensibly still on the ship to keep an eye on them.

“Is Kowalski your real name?”

Kowalski rested his forehead on the wall. “Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“My grandfather had … dealings … with some humans, when he was a young officer. He was fascinated with human literature, learned a couple of human languages, read voraciously. My parents couldn’t decide on a name when I came around — I’m the youngest, they’d already used up all the easy family names. Grandfather apparently suggested Kowalski, thought it sounded noble. I don’t know how he convinced my parents to go for it; maybe they were desperate.”

“Did you know your grandfather?”

“No. He died when I was very young.”

“That’s too bad. Have you read …”

“Streetcar? Read? No. Seen the movie, of course.”

“Brando?”

“Classic.”

Fraser nodded. “What about your grandfather?”

“I don’t think so. He mostly read Russian, and I think a little Japanese. I’m not sure he ever learned to read English.”

Fraser nodded again. “Is there actually anything wrong with the computer?”

“How am I supposed to know. It makes this horrible farting noise every time I go near it.” Kowalski demonstrated. It was, indeed, a horrible farting noise.

Fraser chuckled. “I see. Tovana said something needed resetting, says she’s getting delays on a few bridge system controls.”

“I’m not entirely sure I even know what you mean.”

“What _do_ they teach you in Romulan spy academy?”

Kowalski swatted at Fraser and said, “Look, will you just fix it for me? I can’t blow my cover now — the real Vulcan is working in Cardassian central command, and even I don’t want to know what Ducat would do if he discovered a Starfleet Vulcan spy in his government.”

“In that case, allow me.” Fraser frowned at the console, tapped thoughtfully at a couple of glyphs, and sighed. “Actually, there is something wrong. I’m not entirely sure what it is, but I should be able to figure it out.”

After sixteen hours of hacking at convoluted Klingon computer programming, Fraser admitted defeat. He called Martok.

“Isn’t Kowalski supposed to be dealing with that?”

“I offered my assistance, sir.”

“Yes — I believe you said something about not being popular with Starfleet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me why.”

“Ah. Well, as you know, I first went to Second City on the trail of the killers of my father.”

“Yes.”

“I did eventually track them down, with some assistance from the police.” (Police, in this instance, probably does not translate exactly. The Klingons, being a largely military society, have a kind of military law enforcement. It is considered a training ground for young soldiers. It is, however, likely that Fraser and Martok are both speaking Klingon, to avoid just such confusions.) 

“However?”

“Two of the villains responsible were human. One was a Starfleet officer, an admiral. The other was one of the top brass of the RCMP. Which is why I am assigned to serve on the Rotarran — I was given to the Klingon empire as a liaison, with, as I understand it, strict instructions to keep me out of Starfleet’s hair. And the RCMP, but that will be less difficult.”

“Understood. I’ll have a word with Captain Sisko.”

“Thank you kindly.” 

Most of the crew of the Rotarran have grown accustomed to the various things the universal translator spits out when Fraser thanks them, which he always does, even in conversations otherwise conducted in Klingon, although there have been many creative results, some of which could be construed as insulting. Martok grunted and broke the connection.

The next time the comms system pinged, it was Captain Sisko himself. 

Fraser blanched, but recovered quickly — not that Sisko didn’t notice. 

“Commander Fraser, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“General Martok tells me you need some help from one of my engineers.”

“It would be appreciated, yes.”

“I took the liberty of checking your record.”

“Ah.”

“You’re a fine officer, Fraser. I never much liked the Admiral, myself.” Sisko smiled. “And it is always a pleasure when someone has the courage to take on corruption at the highest levels of Starfleet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you … ah. In any case. Commander Fraser, I will send my chief engineer to give you a hand — he has some experience with Klingon ships, and he’s the finest engineer I’ve ever served with.”

“Thank you kindly.”

Sisko smiled again, “I would also like to invite you to dinner, the day after tomorrow. Don’t worry — I’m inviting my senior staff, and the General.”

Fraser is frozen, unsure how to answer that.

“Think about it, Commander.” Sisko, still smiling, broke the connection. 

Fraser remained where he was, wondering if Sisko was baiting him for some purpose or if he was genuinely not bothered by the events which had led to Fraser’s … reassignment.

Kowalski, a bit out of breath from running, stopped suddenly in the bridge entrance and said, “Are you all right? I was getting worried …”

Fraser, who had been sitting in the comms officer’s seat, shook his head. “Yes. Sorry.” He looked stunned.

“It had been a while. I wasn’t sure if maybe you’d been called off for court-martial for being forced to ask for help …” Kowalski said, trying to lighten it up. 

Fraser glared at him.

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean it? Are they sending help?”

“Yes. The Starfleet engineer should be here in an hour or so — he had some kind of transporter problem to repair, but the Captain told him to get to us next.”

“Nice of them.”

“Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, the humans Kowalski's grandfather had "dealings" with are Chekov and Sulu. It is possible that I am playing fast and loose with the timeline. But this is a crossover AU that is about to also include hockey, so ... I think timelines are the least of our worries.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this mess starts to go off the rails. Vecchio is not required to be polite, there is a digression involving the Romulan North, and Worf is too attached to dignity. Also, Julian and Garak arrange a date.

“I take it you’re feeling fully recovered?”

“Yes! I feel wonderful!”

“What exactly have you been doing? Quark looks unusually pleased, you must be paying him quite a lot of latinum for whatever it is.”

“Please don’t tell us if it’s pornographic.” Kowalski said.

“Not at all. I’ve been playing hockey. Quark is pleased because I have paid him several bars of latinum to obtain various holo-programs.”

“ _Bars_?” Kowalski said, stunned.

“Hockey?” Vecchio asked.

“I think you’d like it, Vecchio. It’s historically violent. It’s a popular Canadian sport. Well, popular in Canada and certain parts of what used to be Russia. Most humans, to be honest, haven’t heard of it.”

Vecchio grinned. “I will try this … hockey! Wait, do I have to be polite?”

“Not in the least. We may have to discuss sportsmanlike behavior, however.”

“Kowalski?”

“Count me out.”

“You might also enjoy it.” Fraser again avoids looking at Vecchio. “It might remind you of … home.”

“Really?” Kowalski looks skeptical, but Fraser knows that he’s got him anyway. There are several Romulan sports reminiscent of hockey, and he is fairly sure that Kowalski played at least one of them. His hands have certain telltale callouses.

“Indeed.”

“When shall we play?”

“Tomorrow evening? Nineteen hundred hours?”

 

Despite the safety protocols in place in the holosuites, helmets are still a requirement of the sport. Or rather, of playing it with your commanding officer, who wishes you to not be concussed when your ship goes back into battle, as the puck used in holo-hockey must still be a physical object, as per the rules. Kowalski was easy enough to get a helmet for, although he said several nasty things about what it would do to his hair. He wisely did not point out that no self-respecting Romulan would use such a thing. Vulcans, being more logical and as a rule more concerned about their mental acuity, probably would. Assuming they ever did anything as stupid as agreeing to play hockey with a Klingon. Fraser wisely resisted commenting, although he didn’t believe that anything could shift that particular Romulan hair gel short of a direct disruptor blast, and even that might be questionable. Vecchio’s skull, being Klingon, would not fit into any of the standard helmets. He did say, several times, that Klingons have much thicker skulls than most humanoids — which Fraser acknowledged. It is still true that Klingons can get concussions, so he refused to relent. They finally went to Bashir and asked him to work something out from Vecchio’s measurements and the particular concerns of Klingon cranial anatomy.

“Hockey?” he asked.

“It is a Canadian sport.”

Bashir raised an eyebrow. “Oh. That. Is that really a sport?”

“I suspect you’re thinking of curling, Doctor, which is absolutely a sport. It requires a great deal of skill and dexterity. That’s why people still play it. Hockey is the one with sticks. It is … less popular. I’m not sure why.”

“Ohhhhh.” Bashir nodded, and said, “I think I treated a couple of Canadian cadets who played that once. I’ll get the emergency head-trauma bays set up. Just in case.”

“Indeed.”

Vecchio looked impressed despite himself.

Bashir hummed to himself while he took measurements of Vecchio’s head and made a few notes on his pad for adaptations the helmet would need to protect the parts of the Klingon’s skull which are most vulnerable, as those are not the same as other humanoid species. “There you are. Have fun, try not to require emergency transport services.”

“Thank you kindly,” Fraser said, and herded the other two out of the infirmary. Vecchio looked pleased. Kowalski was starting to look a little more green than usual.

Bashir watched them go, shook his head, and called Garak. “Can we get dinner early today? I have a feeling I may need to be prepared for a medical emergency later.” 

“Of course, my dear. What kind of medical emergency?”

“Apparently the Canadian plays hockey.”

“Hockey?”

“It’s, um, a human sport.”

“Interesting. A human sport that makes the doctor nervous. This sounds like it might be a worthwhile.”

“Don’t start. Just … don’t. I’ve treated hockey injuries before. Hockey players are not normal people.”

“Normal people are so dull, Julian. You of all people should know that.”

“Garak!” Julian smiled fondly, and said, “Dinner. Around eighteen hundred?”

“Perfect.”

 

Fraser did the replication in his quarters; it was a truly magnificent helmet, worthy of a warrior. At least that’s what Vecchio said when Fraser presented it to him.

 

The way hockey is played in the twenty-fourth century differs very little from the way it was played in the mid-twentieth century. There has been some relaxation of certain early twenty-first century rules, since medicine and the understanding of brain function have advanced dramatically. It does have a not-entirely deserved reputation as one of the most dangerous sports still played by humans, although there are no longer professional hockey teams as not _enough_ humans play it; it being considered dangerous isn’t saying much — humans barely even play _baseball_ in the twenty-fourth century. Football and rugby are outright banned on several planets. For some reason, they do still play cricket. Nobody has been able to offer an adequate explanation for this, although it probably has something to do with the extent of the Indian diaspora. There have been sports much _like_ hockey in the Klingon empire — although theirs tended to involve bladed weapons and balls that exploded if hit incorrectly, and ice is optional as Klingons are not, as a rule, particularly enamored of ice skates. It’s difficult to get a pair adapted to Klingon feet that is strong enough to bear their weight, and most Klingon fighting styles require a certain stability that is difficult to obtain with blades on ice. Also, Klingons object to the cold.

Unless you’re serving with a Fraser. It turned out that he just happened to have a replicator pattern for hockey skates that were perfectly suited to Vecchio’s feet, although Vecchio was unconvinced, especially once he’d laced them on and tried to stand up.

Kowalski, on the other hand, actually knew a thing or two about ice skating, and had his own replicator pattern for ice skates, which surprised both Fraser and Vecchio. “What? I’m from the North. Uh. Northern part of Vulcan. We ice skate. There’s ice. On Vulcan. Totally. Ice.” Fraser had been correct; Kowalski had played a sport much like hockey. It _had_ been a while, callouses or not.

Fraser shook his head and hoped that Kowalski wouldn’t give himself away; Vecchio, fortunately, appeared to believe it.

 

Of course, Vecchio isn’t stupid. He did some research, later, while they were still on DS9, and discovered that there was no such thing on Vulcan; there’s barely any _ice_ on Vulcan, let alone Vulcans who skate — too illogical, not dignified enough. He wasn’t surprised, obviously, but it was nice to have confirmation. There _was_ a Romulan sport — actually, there were several — with sticks and balls. And there were ancient Romulan skates, nasty-looking things with sharp blades along the sides and wicked spikes at the toes, designed for speed and maneuverability. Those had been created many centuries before the discovery of space travel to fight a particularly brutal war in the farthest, iciest reaches of the Romulan North. Vecchio was oddly pleased to have such evidence of where Kowalski was from. Not that he _liked_ Kowalski or anything, but it was good to know a thing or two about your fellow-officers. Just in case. And he resolved to get himself a pair of those skates, just in case he had to fight a battle on an ice planet. They looked useful.

 

Kowalski, it turned out, was pretty good at skating, although going backwards was still beyond him. Vecchio finished adjusting his laces, stood up, levered himself out onto the ice and promptly fell over.

Kowalski tried not to laugh, and Fraser offered him a hand up. “We’ll start slowly.”

“Argh.” Vecchio said. Fortunately for his dignity as a Klingon warrior, he picked up the basics of skating pretty fast. Klingons, especially those trained for battle (which is not quite all Klingons), do tend to know things like where their center of gravity is.

Then Fraser turned on the holo-goalie, and started trying to explain the rules.

 

I will leave the ensuing disaster to your imagination.

 

They got better, though, because Fraser is so enthusiastic and _so_ convinced that they can do it. Both Vecchio and Kowalski, for some reason they can’t quite articulate, have a bizarre compulsion to try to make Fraser … happy. 

 

It is hardest to remember _why_ on mornings after they’ve gone to practice with Fraser. They usually arrive early, so they can have the first mug of raktagino in peace. Fraser will always be chipper — and, while Fraser is chipper most of the time, he is almost obscenely so in the aftermath of hockey — and both Vecchio and Kowalski are generally in a certain amount of pain as a result of unfamiliar motion. Kowalski, one morning, admitted to having had dreams about passing drills. Vecchio sighed and said his were about tight turns — Klingons are more dense than most humanoids, so when he fell doing a tight turn, he tended to slide for quite some distance. It was a challenge for the holo-processors to keep up. Fraser arrived in the mess hall before they could go any further, and both of them made a concerted effort to sit up straighter and appear more awake. They saluted him with their raktaginos and he clapped each of them on the shoulder as he passed. “Well done, both of you.”

 

He ordered one of the standard Klingon breakfast options. While he waited for it to materialize, a security officer walked up, stopped just to his right, and cleared her throat. “Um. Commander Fraser.”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve heard …” she paused, and took a deep breath, “I’ve heard you’re playing hockey. At Quark’s.”

“Yes.”

“I, um, could I maybe perhaps join you?”

“You play?” he said, not betraying any feeling at all.

“Yeah. I, well, I did a year exchange in the, uh, Territories, and you know … it was hockey or the library, and I’m not very good at human languages.”

“Ah, yes, the library. It is a historic treasure.”

“So it’s been almost a year and you know nobody here or on Bajor has ever even heard of hockey and when I try to describe it, they give me this _look_.”

“I know that look.”

“And I heard … I heard you were teaching the Klingon and the Vulcan how to play. From Quark. Who would know. So I thought …”

“Indeed,” he paused for thought, “why don’t you join us.” He looked at Vecchio and Kowalski, who were hunched over their breakfasts like old men. “Perhaps in two days.”

“Excellent, sir, thank you kindly, sir!” she saluted.

He took his food; she stayed and ordered something complicated that made the replicator whine alarmingly.

 

It turned out that O’Brien knew a little something about hockey, too. Not to play it — he was a bar sports kind of fellow — but as a fan. He’d served with an RCMP liaison officer once, long before he’d made it to the Enterprise. It was his idea to have an exhibition game, in one of the cargo bays. 

 

Sisko sighed, tried to think of a valid objection, and gave up. He understood, after all, being a bit baseball mad himself. “Fine, Chief. Just make sure there are no leaks.”

The Chief laughed and agreed. “You’ll come, sir, won’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

Worf muttered “It’s not _dignified_.”

Jadzia laughed and punched him in the leg. “Hush. Look at them, having fun. You are the only Klingon I have ever met who is completely incapable of having fun.”

Worf didn’t sigh. Worf just glared at the ice.

 

The entire crew of the Rotarran was crowded up against the glass. The Zamboni was out — O’Brien had found the original blueprints for a classic, and built it out of replicated parts and a couple of things he’d had shipped up from Bajor — and they were _rapt_. Tovana was taking notes, Leskit had already put a reminder to ask O’Brien for the plans or try to buy the thing from him after the game, and even Martok was taken with it. Although he was attempting to maintain some decorum, and was the only member of the Rotarran crew still _sitting down_. That wouldn’t last once the game actually started. The first time the puck hit the boards, Martok was roaring right along with the rest of his crew.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I totally accidentally posted part 6 twice, which Odvie kindly pointed out (and then I think I deleted the comment in question), so ... thanks! Sorry! This is actually part 7! 
> 
> I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for every cheap joke about hockey. Hockey is the most fun. I am also easily amused and I COULD NOT RESIST THE IDEA OF KLINGONS PLAYING HOCKEY. *ahem* I hope someone else finds this entertaining. Because it keeps going. I just do not know when to stop.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the crew of the Rotarran develops a new method of battle-training and Kowalski says something rude in Romulan.

A week after the game, General Martok summoned the crew back to the Rotarran. 

 

He found the Zamboni on the second day out from the station.

“What is this thing doing here?” Martok shouted.

“It’s, um, for luck. General. Sir.”

“Do the humans know you have it?”

“The engineer gave it to us! Sir!”

Martok growled something unflattering about O’Brien’s parentage, and said, “I see. Carry on. See that it doesn’t interfere with your duties.”

 

Klingon ships do have holodecks. They are not, generally, used for recreation. They are for battle simulations and fighting practice. Hockey, apparently, is a battle simulation. At least according to the engineer of the Rotarran, backed up enthusiastically by the Vulcan. 

 

Who, it must be noted, is acting less and less like a Vulcan as he gets more confident on the ice. Even some of the Klingons are noticing certain … Romulan tactics to his fighting. And Kowalski does fight. He can’t seem to help himself. 

 

They had made an impassioned argument about tactics, strategy, and split-second decision-making, which Fraser had considered carefully and declared sufficiently convincing before agreeing to contribute an officer’s portion to the purchase of one of the hockey programs from Quark. Quark had, of course, been thrilled to sell them a copy for an exorbitant price.

 

Martok didn’t reveal their actual mission until they’d been traveling, full out, for four days. They were going to meet with a Romulan diplomat about some new developments in the Cardassian-Dominon alliance, developments that Romulan intelligence found very interesting and that Klingon intelligence was willing to trade for. Starfleet had their own deals with the Romulans, and probably already knew. Politics with Starfleet were never straightforward, no matter how open and honest they liked to pretend to be.

 

The noise Kowalski made was impressive. It was a sort of warbling howl, with undertones of hysteria. Apparently it was a Romulan phrase of some kind, one that the universal translators had never encountered before or had been programmed to ignore. Martok caught it. “Kowalski. Come speak to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I do know some Romulan, Kowalski.”

“Shit. Sir.”

“Don’t use language like that on my bridge. Unless you learn Klingon — then we can all appreciate your eloquence.” Martok laughed. “Leskit could learn a lot from you, Kowalski.”

Kowalski looked, slack-jawed, at the General.

“So. Fraser tells me you’re a Romulan.”

“Uh.”

“And you’ve just given me ample proof.”

Kowalski sputtered and seemed to be on the verge of posturing, loudly, and probably at great length.

Martok reached out, grabbed him by the shoulder, and smiled. Showing all his freshly sharpened teeth.

Kowalski whimpered. Martok, even though he was blind in one eye, was a terrifying man. And Kowalski was a small (if scrappy) Romulan. Pretending to be a Vulcan.

“Be logical, little _Vulcan_. You are here on my ship. I haven’t had you killed and dumped out the airlock yet. Don’t give me a reason to.”

“Er?”

“Will these Romulans know you?”

“Maybe? What ship is it?”

“The Starla.”

Kowalski laughed, definitely with a tinge of hysteria. “They’ll know me, all right. Hell, they’re probably here just to blow my cover.”

“Who?”

“My ex-wife. That’s her damn ship.”

“So we will have to keep you out of sight.”

“You can’t do that — everyone knows you have a Vulcan liaison, they’ll expect to see him.”

“You will be busy doing something else. They won’t dare question me.”

“You haven’t met Stella.”

“Stella?”

“My ex.”

“Fraser will think of something compelling. That is why I have a first officer, after all. Fraser!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Please keep our … _Vulcan_ out of trouble while we are in contact with the Romulans.”

“Of course, sir.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some Romulans try to start trouble.

“Where’s Kowalski?” the Romulan captain snapped.

“Why are you interested in our Vulcan?”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap, there’s no way he had you fooled. He’s not that good.”

“Are you implying that one of my officers is unworthy of service?”

“Have you _met_ Kowalski?”

“Yes, and he is a fine officer. He has contributed to our victories as befits his rank.”

She laughed. Martok actually wondered if she was going to hurt herself, she laughed so hard and for so long. “My apologies, General. Far be it from me to doubt the quality of your officers.”

Martok scowled at her. Kowalski was a pain in the ass, certainly, but he was still a part of a Klingon crew, and as such his honor must be defended. Besides, she was already grating on his last nerve. The conversation had started off fine, in a diplomatic vein — Martok _hated_ diplomacy — but had quickly deteriorated into the usual Romulan sneering. 

* * *

 

“Fraser.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I need you to handle the Romulans.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“And if they insult Kowalski again, feel free to start a diplomatic incident.”

“Thank you, sir.”

* * *

“Why are we dealing with these Romulans, again?”

“Oh, they wanted to make some kind of deal with the Empire.” 

“What is it they’re offering?”

“Some kind of intelligence about the Cardassians. Or the Dominion. Or both. Maybe they’re going to give us a Changeling.”

“Hah!” Tovana scoffed. “Martok was replaced by a Changeling for _months_ , you know.”

“I did know that.” 

“If they captured a Changeling, they would have to give it to Starfleet.”

“They wouldn’t do that! Starfleet is far too soft!”

“And easy to take over — do you know how many times they’ve nearly been overwhelmed by conspiracy from within? Usually it’s just parasitic brain worms, but there have certainly been other occasions. All the Changelings would have to do is replace one high-level… Fraser.”

“Yes?”

“Why, exactly, are you serving on this ship?”

“I uncovered a conspiracy in Starfleet high command that also implicated one of my RCMP superiors.”

Leskit and Tovana exchanged a significant look. “Do the Romulans know this?”

“They might, I suppose. The details were supposed to remain classified, but it’s likely that they have sources of information.”

“Oh dear. That explains some things.”

“What things?”

“I think they are going to _try_ to deliver a Changeling to us. It’s the kind of backstabbing Romulan politicians are best at. And they’re probably going to try to do it in a way that will discredit you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re too damn honest, and too damn persistent, that’s why.” Kowalski said, “You make Romulan intelligence’s job much more difficult — can’t get an agent in, if you’re there to sniff him out.”

Fraser raised an eyebrow.

Kowalski shrugged, “It’s true. I heard stories.”

Vecchio growled. “So we will destroy them if we have to.”

“You will do no such thing,” Kowalski nearly shouted, “Stella is on that ship.”

Vecchio scoffed. “She doesn’t care for you; you _heard_ what she said.”

 “It doesn’t matter,” Kowalski said, more quietly.

“What are we going to do?”

“Take their information, and use it for our own purposes.”

“What exactly are our purposes?”

“Glory! Battle! Honor! Come on, Fraser, you knew that.”

“Indeed. And what if their intentions are honest?”

Vecchio shrugged. “Not likely, but we’ll think of something.”

“Do we go in guns blazing, then?”

“Ask the General. I’m sure he has _orders_.” Kowalski snarled.

“Don’t forget that you are an officer of the Klingon empire as long as you serve this ship!” Fraser said. “Now. I am going to meet with Martok about this Romulan thing. Don’t get into more trouble than you can handle, and keep _quiet_ about your conspiracy theories.”

Kowalski and Vecchio both grimaced at that, while Tovana and Leskit shrugged, and the rest of the crew muttered in anticipation. There would be battle, soon enough, and there was bloodwine for the victory celebration. There would be victory, they were at least convinced of that.


	10. In Which The Canadian Is In The Middle of Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, it starts to get extra-special around now, and I need to re-watch Call of the Wild before I get to any conclusions for which I apologize in advance but honestly if you're reading this you don't have expectations at this point. Am I right?

“I imagine you know what the Romulans told me.”  
“I imagine I do.”  
“They claim you’re a changeling spy.”  
“That is what I expected.”  
“I’ll have to run a blood test.”  
“Certainly,” Fraser said, and began rolling up his sleeve.   
Martok smiled, grimly, and took a vial of blood, which he shook absently for the rest of their conversation. It stayed resolutely red. “Now why, Commander, would the Romulans want you discredited?”  
Fraser shook his head. “I can’t imagine. I’m not exactly welcome in the higher offices of the RCMP or Starfleet, so it must have something to do with the Empire.”  
“Of course it does,” Martok said, “and I want to know what your assignment here means.”  
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”  
“I will go to the Chancellor.”  
“As you wish, sir.”  
“I begin to understand why your superiors foisted you off on us.” Martok sighed. “You do appear to be human. Which is a small blessing.”  
“Indeed, sir.”  
“Now will you figure out what game the Romulans are playing before I lose patience and start a war?”  
“I will attempt to do so, yes, sir.”  
“Good. Dismissed!” Martok waited until the door closed behind Fraser, stared at the featureless grey of it for a moment, and opened a comm channel.

Fraser, as you are no doubt aware by this point, is a stubborn and detail-oriented person. He is very, very, very good at sniffing out conspiracy. Certain portions of the High Command has long suspected something … awry, and being on the Rotarran places him in the center of Klingon politics — the General, recently returned from the Jem’hadar prison, is a rallying figure for the entire empire. The problem isn’t the Vulcan — and he hasn’t, yet, reported that to his superiors in what might be termed the Klingon Secret Service, as Kowalski really does seem to be exactly what he says he is. Which is to say, a fake Vulcan with no particular ulterior motives. Just the usual: promotion, a little respect.   
Romulan politics traditionally involves a certain amount of playing both sides, at least until there’s a clear winner in sight, and in the infancy of the conflict with the Dominion, there is no certainty. The Jem’hadar are brutal, certainly, but Starfleet can be creative. There are occasions on which the proper counter to political deviousness is an agent who is constitutionally incapable of genuine subterfuge: enter Benton Fraser, RCMP. Kowalski is, no doubt, a bad influence on him — but it is to be hoped that he is likewise a good influence on Kowalski. 

“Chancellor.”  
“General.”  
“Why did you send me the human?”  
“Ah. Is his service adequate?”  
“You know damn well it’s impeccable.”  
The Chancellor laughed. “I was there for his … demonstration.”  
“So?” Martok asked.  
“I’m not required to explain things to you, General.”  
The General growled, although the Chancellor was entirely correct. “I need to know in order to command my ship.”  
“Do you?”  
“You know that doubt is the difference between victory and defeat! If I must question the motivations of my first officer, this ship will never achieve true glory in battle!”  
“I assure you, Commander Fraser is in no way a threat to you.”  
“He already challenged me for command!”  
“In order to inspire you to greater glory. And he was successful, was he not?”  
“Chancellor.”  
“Are you challenging me, General?”  
“No, Chancellor.” Martok glanced down, conceding the point, and then looked back up at the screen to meet the Chancellor’s gaze, “But remember this. We will be revisiting it.”  
“As you say, General.”  
Martok cut off the connection and sat back in his chair. There was something going on, all right, and the Canadian was in the middle of it. Somehow. He didn’t think there was an actual changeling involved — they generally didn’t send out many of their own, and while the Rotarran was rapidly becoming the flagship of Klingon resistance to the Dominion, it wasn’t a linchpin of the Empire or anything. It was, perhaps, a strange coincidence that he had a Romulan and a Canadian assigned to his ship, but he couldn’t think of anything they could reasonably get up to that would cause long-term damage. Other than hockey, of course, which the crew was still distressingly enthusiastic about.

It may be that Martok has underestimated the burgeoning partnership of Kowalski and Fraser, though.


	11. In Which Fraser Is Creative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I made this happen. I have no shame. None.

“Flood the ship!”

“WHAT?”

“Flood the ship! Ice all the floors!”

“I … oh,” the engineer said, finally realizing where Fraser was going with his command. “Yes, sir!”

“Do it fast!”

There was a hideous hissing, and the roar of every pipe onboard letting loose. While it is not important to fully understand the plumbing of a Klingon battle cruiser, it may interest you to know that they are indeed well-equipped with water-pipes everywhere. It helps in cleanup, which is often otherwise quite tedious. There are also floor drains in every room, but for some reason they can be blocked with a simple command from engineering. Klingons like to cover all contingencies, and there are plenty of reasons to want to flood a particular portion of the ship. Or merely to wish a drain to cease draining. Prior to Fraser’s command, none of those reasons had been because the crew was about to fight a battle while strapped to knives. Metaphorically speaking.

The Rotarran had crossed into Cardassian territory on the tail of a particularly irksome foe, a calculated risk which had not paid off. A lucky shot from their enemy had disabled their warp engines, so they couldn’t escape, and then their starboard thrusters had blown, so they were circling, easy prey for a boarding party.

Until Fraser had his moment of inspiration, and ordered the ship flooded. Most of the crew had some kind of skates by this point, because even Martok had finally admitted that hockey as a battle simulation was more stimulating than the traditional approach, and organized an ice sheet in a cargo bay. Fraser’s next order, logically, was “Get yourselves laced up NOW, we’ve got less than two minutes until they latch on and cut their way in.”

The hiss of cutting torches was just barely audible, and the first line was Fraser, Kowalski, and Vecchio, who’d already been prepared. Vecchio had stuck with a traditional Klingon weapon, but both Fraser and Kowalski were holding lethally sharp hooked sticks. Hockey sticks, with the finest in cutting technology for their blades. The Rotarran’s engineering crew had quite enjoyed the weapon-building challenge.

Martok joined them, grimaced, and said, “How much longer?”

“By the sound of it,” Fraser said, “about twenty seconds.”

“Ah.”

Kowalski shuddered. “This’ll work, right? I don’t want to be captured by the Cardassians.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Martok said, “I set the auto-destruct. If we can’t turn the tide in ten minutes, the ship blows.”

“That’s reassuring,” Kowalski said. The sarcasm in his voice went unmarked by his companions.

Vecchio hefted his batleth and grinned. “This will be fun!”

“You have a completely insane definition of fun,” Kowalski muttered.

Vecchio heard him, as intended, punched him in the arm, and said, gleefully, “You’re looking forward to this! Don’t lie! I can tell!”

“How?”

“You’re still here!”

The bulkhead collapsed, and the Cardassian boarding party poured in. The first few, not expecting the ice-slick floors, skidded and fell. The ones after them had a little more time to prepare, but were still caught off-balance.

Kowalski laughed, “You might be right, for once, Vecchio!”

They moved to engage the enemy before any of them could regain enough composure to remember that they had phasers and didn’t have to move. When the Rotarran crew recounted the story of their epic victory over the Cardassian battle crusier [?], they embellished extensively: for one thing, everyone claimed to have been possessed by the spirit of the great Maurice Richard and skated as though they were on Romulan war-ice. In truth, only the first rank of the ship had bothered — the whole point of icing the ship was one of intimidation. It helps that Klingon warriors tend to be rather better balanced than any other humanoid species — different center of gravity, according to the experts — and that the Cardassians were not expecting such slippery floors. The Jem’hadar had similarly been thrown by the slickness of the ice, which had helped; even Klingons tended to find the drug-induced single-mindedness of the Jem’hadar a challenge in battle.

The battle lasted just over nine minutes, which caused Kowalski a certain anxiety that was betrayed by the endless stream of foul language and his sudden ability to execute some rather flashy maneuvers. Fraser betrayed no emotion about the matter, as was his wont. Vecchio, and the rest of the Klingon crew, had long since become accustomed to the uncertainty of fighting while the ship counted down to its destruction.

Martok wiped his hands on the cloth of his uniform pants and said, “You’re lucky that worked.”

“I had faith that the crew would succeed.”

“It was very slightly unorthodox.”

“The element of surprise worked in our favor.”

“Is this some kind of Canadian conspiracy to make hockey an interstellar sport?”

“No, sir, not at all.”

“Indeed. Well done. Go, congratulate the crew on a victory well-earned, break open a cask of blood-wine, and see if you can get engineering to thaw out the ship faster. There’s still ice on the bridge, and I prefer a warmer climate.”

“Yes, sir.”

They cannibalized the Cardassian ship’s engines in order to get out of enemy territory.

* * *

Klingons _can_ get hangovers. It takes a fair bit of effort, though, due to the way they process alcohol. At least two members of the Rotarran crew put in the effort after their frozen victory over the Cardassians. They were becoming fond of their Canadian first officer, but at the same time, serving on the Rotarran was becoming … odd. It wasn’t a nice, predictable Klingon ship of the line anymore. Martok heard the whispering, the first stirrings of something that might eventually become discontent, and considered what he could do about it.

Fraser heard the same whispering, and being remarkably perceptive for a human, knew exactly what he had to do in order to change the tenor of it. He was, after all, used to being a bit of an odd one out. His own superiors had assigned him permanently to the Klingon Empire, after all, the only Canadian with such a distant post. [Kowalski, Fraser, and Vecchio go in search of a legendary lost Klingon ship, yes]

“General.”

“Yes?”

“I believe that I’ve found a lead on the location of a certain legendary lost ship of the Empire.”

“Have you really?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not just a transparent attempt to get off the Rotarran?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Too bad. If a Canadian and a Romulan find that ship, the Klingon empire will never live it down.”

“Ah. I see your point, sir.” Fraser paused to think for a moment. “Vecchio has volunteered to accompany us.”

“ _Has_ he?”

“He _will_ , sir.”

“Ah.” Fraser stood at attention while Martok pondered the political implications of this latest. It was true that Fraser was, while still popular enough with most of the Rotarran crew, causing some friction in other parts of the fleet. Eventually, someone from the Rotarran was going to have to defend his honor and the fighting could easily get out of hand; the Empire couldn’t afford that kind of division while the fight with the Dominion continued.

“Perhaps you could also take Tovana and Leskit,” he left unsaid the _because they are most likely to get into a fight over you and cause the collapse of the Empire because they don’t know when to stop_ , knowing Fraser would understand the implication, “and get official sanction from High Command.”

“Of course, sir.”


End file.
